


Roulette

by Miss_Understood



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Criminal Masterminds, F/M, Guest Starring other characters, Inspired by a Movie, Leverage AU, M/M, Recurring Characters, Revenge, averagebestfriend!Scott, grifter!Isaac, hacker!Derek, hitter!Allison, mastermind!Lydia, sort of, thief!Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2010636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Understood/pseuds/Miss_Understood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It's either talent or dumb luck, but somehow they work together seamlessly.</em>
</p><p>In which Lydia does her best to lead a ragtag group of high profile thieves in fighting perfectly human crimes.</p><p>HIATUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude + "The First Job"

**Author's Note:**

> Very heavily based on various episodes of the tv show Leverage.  
> In fact I literally re-watched my favorite episodes and wrote simultaneously.  
> I really just wanted Stiles as Parker so I have no excuse.  
> Also Sterek is endgame and will be in small developments across the chapters.
> 
> Thanks for Reading!  
>  **Disclaimer: **I own neither _Teen Wolf_ , _Leverage_ , nor any of their characters/ideas.****

                                                       

 

"I'm sorry, Ms. Martin, sorry for bothering you. I know who you are, um, I read all about you in one of those online articles? You saved your insurance company, what, over a hundred million dollars in lawsuits."

 **Lydia** glances up from her novel, surprised but not outwardly.

From a quick glance, she was nothing out of the ordinary. Besides her outward appearance, she's never had a reason to be approached out of the blue.

 

Nearly three months ago, Lydia Martin was the saving grace of her insurance company. It had taken years to accomplish, countless hours of researching and digging and talking over the phone, but that was life as an insurance investigator. It was dull, lifeless, even flat compared to the rest of the world. And while the job wasn't particularly difficult, and it certainly wasn't stiff in payout, it wasn't something that one could see doing the rest of her life. At least not willingly.

But that was three months ago, when she'd been Lydia Martin, Beacon Insurance Investigator.

The title was currently missing an "ex-".

Having quit her job suddenly one day, she left no room for gossip or misinterpretation when she forced her way into her boss' office with a deadly smirk pulling her lips and said "This can't be all that I am, and I won't read another formal lawsuit for the rest of my life," before promptly stalking out with heels clicking.

 

So to say she was surprised by a random confronting her about her old job, in the middle of a Chicago coffee shop, was a terrible understatement.

The random wasn't anything special either, just a bumbling older man with nervous energy and a smile who was suddenly handing her papers as if she was one to accept that. The being-handed-papers bit, that is.

"I can't even believe how they still wouldn't promote you even after so many years-"

"You know that part of the conversation where I punch you in the neck nine or ten times, we're coming up on that pretty quick," she interrupts with a sneer, trying to hold her book in front of her face in a way that translated "fuck off" without actually saying so.

The man looks partly affronted, but doesn't seem any less put off. He sighs, tapping at the manila folders he'd been placing at the table in front of her.

"I just wanted to offer you a job." 

"And you are?"

"Matt Daehler."

Lydia glances over the binding of her books, lowering it only a fraction. She manages an air of casual interest, but she can't help but be curious as to why someone would come up to her with a job proposition. She's been out of one since January, so a new prospect is very much inviting.

"What've you got?" she asks finally, setting her book down and out of the way, glancing at the covers of the four files that rest in front of her. She gets the feeling that this is somehow important, that these four files are significant to her future in some way. Sort of in a climactic movie, she supposes.

The man smiles, as if she's got her hook, line, and sinker. "Do you know anything about airplane design?"

 Lydia looks up, confused and a bit disappointed frankly, but keeps face. She sighs, "I could give it a shot. Lend me a piece of paper, and I'll try my best." Sarcasm as a defense is one of her lowest attempts, but the man seems frustrated enough by it. She's expecting the big news soon.

"Someone stole my airplane designs," he snarls, letting out misplaced anger and quickly trying to reign it back in. Lydia just quirks an eyebrow, lips tugged just left in a sardonic half-smile. She sighs, propping her elbows up on the table and realizing that maybe this wasn't as interesting as she'd been so hoping for.

"Oh, I see. And you want me to find them," she begins.

"I know where they are," Matt says ominously, leaning forward.

"I want you to _steal_ them back."

 

Ten minutes later, and Lydia's properly intrigued. Leaning forward in her seat and looking down at the paper strewn across the table.

"And you're sure this guy stole your designs?" She asks again, for likely the third or fourth time. She can't just jump right into this without being sure this guy's not pulling one over on her. Like one of those undercover bosses shows, except with cops and seriously illegal activity.

"Absolutely."

Sighing, she looks up to meet Matt's eyes. "It's just, there are so many easier ways than stealing it back..." And she peaks from experience.

"Look, I don't have time for another lawsuit. I have a meeting next week and if I have nothing to show for the five years I've worked on this, then I am dead," he stresses, drawing out each syllable. It's painfully irritating, but Lydia voices nothing.

She groans audibly, leaning back and rubbing her temples in frustration. 

Matt must sense her impending decline because he's flustered and pulling at the files on the table. The ones they haven't fished through yet.

"Look, look! I'm serious!" He;s fumbling around with the folders, opening them frantically and causing a commotion. Lydia glances around, smiling at the onlookers kindly and waving them off. "Look who I've already hired on this!"

Lydia sighs and expects to take a look down for a moment, but suddenly she's staring at photographs of people she knows _very_ well. And not in the good way.

She looks up, unable to hide her surprise now. "I've chased all of them at one point or another..." she leafs through a few more pages. 

Argent.

Hale.

Stiles.

 

 

"Stiles? You have Stiles?" She asks, pulling the file out specifically.

Matt looks concerned, "Is there somebody better?"

Lydia leans back again, eyes thinned in confusion. "No, but Stiles is insane."

" _Which_ is why I need you."

Lydia almost nearly stands up and walks out, the task already coming across as far too risky for something so stupid. "No, no, no. I'm not a thief," she concedes, almost solely to herself. She needs the convincing.

"I don't need thieves, I have those. I need one honest person to watch them," he explains.

She sighs again, loudly, and rolls her eyes. "So I'm their babysitter, essentially?"

"Essentially."

About the protest, she allows herself to be interrupted.

"Are you in?"

She pauses.

"It can't work. All these people that you hired," she looks down at Derek Hale's glaring face staring back at her, "They always work alone, they can't do this in a group."

"Oh it will. For $300,000, they'll do it. And for you, double that!" Matt smiles then, confidently, and Lydia can't help but be impressed. "And there's a bonus. This company is insured by Beacon."

That gets her attention.

"Wouldn't you love to screw over the company that let you sit in the same desk for ten years?" 

 

 

 

                                                      

 

"Alright, clear coms," Lydia says, confident into her earpiece as she lays out the floor plans for the building. She's in an onlooking building, hidden away from sight and thankfully out of the real action. Though it feels very uncomfortable, not being able to actually see what's happening, because every white noise from the coms could be a bullet for all she knows. It's already wearing on her.

And it's barely been five minutes.

 _"You're joking,"_ a voice practically whines in her ear, static properly fuzzing up in all the right places. _"What is this stuff from, the 80's? I've got something nicer."_

"No surprises, Hale."

 _"I've literally been doing this since high school,_ Martin _."_

 

Derek Hale was hardly the smartest kid in school, when he was in it. However, today he is one of the most talented computer specialists and hackers on the government's watchlist. Only 27 and no stranger to the world, he was raised by his slightly deranged uncle after the remainder of his family, save his sister Laura, was killed in the fire that consumed his early childhood home. It's never been written down, where exactly he learned how to navigate through computers, but what is known is that his first crime involved charging Iceland with his college tuition to MIT, which they paid in full. For any other accomplishments he has not been charged and therefore they aren't traceable. He is further known to be very attached to his electronics, whatever they may be, and has a sense of sour, dry arrogance that never fails to give anyone a migraine.

 

"Here, take these at least. If I hear another wave of static I might just leave you both on the roof," Derek says finally, handing a pair of earbuds to the other two registered convicts there with him.

"You're not as useless as you look," Allison Argent says with a small smile. The thing is she's not even being sarcastic, she's genuinely surprised.

Derek throws her a disgusted look, before turning back to the lap top balanced in his hands. "I don't even know what you do," he sneers back quietly, eyebrows furrowing.

 

Allison Argent wasn't anyone until about four years ago, when something happened and suddenly she was on the grid. No one's even sure what happened, she was literally just there. What no one does know is what she actually does. She's classified as a "Retrieval Specialist" in her file, but it's anyone's guess as to what that means. The only rumor even mentioning her was that she once walked into a tavern, had 10 guns drawn on her, and ended up leaving the place with a dozen classic baseball cards and without a scratch.

 

Allison doesn't respond, just smiles pleasantly as she puts the earbud in and pulls her hair back into a bun.

"Can I have one?" 

Derek glances up for a moment, before suddenly there's a body hanging upside down from _something_ said body had set up. He's eye-level with the guy and giving him his best glare, while begrudgingly handing the earbud to his waiting hand. The guy just grins wildly, eyes close to bugging, and swings back up to sit a full height above them.

Stiles is sticking the earpiece in with a grin before hopping back to the roof's floor. He pulls on some sort of rope, and when it holds, grins wide.

"The last time I used this rig, Paris 2003."

 

There's literally nothing on Stiles. Not even a full name. Is it his first name, is it his last, is it a nickname? They just don't know. The only thing they do is that, from experience, he's an expert thief, cat-burglar, safe-cracker, and pickpocket. A thief. That's all they got. Sorry.

 

"Is this thing safe?" Allison asks, poking at the earpiece timidly, in her ear.

 _"Are you talking about the Caravaggio?"_ Lydia's voice snaps in their ears, directly a Stiles. _"You stole that!"_ She sounds immensely pissed off, but as if she's come into some new information. 

"Probably," Derek responds casually, giving the girl a sour look. "But let me know if you experience nausea, weakness in your right side ... stroke."

Allison frankly ignores him, muttering irritably to herself, "This is why I work alone."

 _"Alright, listen up!"_ Lydia barks, making Derek wince at the decibel. _"We go on my count, no sooner. Stiles, no freelancing."_ Derek suspects she's drinking coffee, what with the way he keeps hearing running water. It's distracting.

"Relax, Lyds, we know what we're doing," Allison assures, and Derek is just about to counter with 'speak for yourself' but only for Stiles' sake, when Lydia keeps talking.

_"On the count of five. Five, four-"_

"Aw, she doesn't want to be our pal," Derek deadpans, interrupting. He can hear exasperated noises from the other side of the coms.

_"On my count. Five, four, three-"_

There's a 'whrring' sound behind the two thieves, and Allison turns around with a sigh, glaring daggers into Stiles' back as he runs full speed towards the edge of the roof. 

"He's gone," Derek comments.

_"Son of a-"_

Stiles leaps off the roof, starfishing in the air and yelling at the top of his lungs. Allison can practically hear his grinning. The rig groans under the weight as it lowers Stiles' body down the stories of the building, but doesn't otherwise budge. When he finally starts slowing down, nearing the correct window, everyone takes a step back and sighs in relief.

"That's twenty pounds of crazy in a five pound bag," Derek narrates, exasperated. 

 

Hanging from the rope secured at the roof, **Stiles** reaches the designated floor. The only problem is he's hovering outside the window, upside-down. He doesn't make a fuss, just glances around for "Vibration detectors... and they're on," he comments irritably, not worried but frankly sour at the sight of the small blinking light. He can hear fussing over the earbuds, someone's throwing a fit, and Stiles smirks at the thought. Lydia's the only voice in his ear with actual help.

 _"No cutting, Stiles. Use the binary,"_ she says, careful to talk quietly.

Stiles nods, mostly to himself, and begins to melt a large circle into the glass with practiced precision with the aforementioned tool.

Once the circle is complete, he sticks a suction cup to the center and pulls, hearing Lydia hold her breath in his ear. No detectors go off, there are no flashing lights, and the coms are even silent with quiet appreciation. Stiles neglects the removed section of glass by frankly just letting go, watching it fall down story after story before it cracks loud against the pavement. Someone swears, but the thief grins in response.

Once inside the building, Stiles makes his way to the adjacent room.

"Have you two made it to the elevator shaft yet?" he asks expectantly, pulling open the fuse box in front of him. Fishing out a pair of wire-cutters, he snips two individually and waits for a response.

_"You know Stiles, any day now-"_

Derek's voice is cut off as Stiles reunites the two wires, essentially hot wiring the elevator. It drops several floors, the two presumably standing on top of it, if they followed the plan, anyhow.

"They're on their way," Stiles comments to Lydia, smiling and closing the small metal door.

_"How's security?"_

 

"Looks good, they don't suspect a thing," **Derek** comments as the elevator comes to a stop, thanks to Stiles. He's toting around a laptop, glancing at the screen in which shows the security room itself. (He'd hacked into the cameras beforehand) "Why do you ask?"

He and Allison climb down into the actual elevator, exiting onto the correct floor.

 _"Do you have any chatter on their frequencies?"_ Lydia asks expectantly.

"No. Why?" Derek's beginning to feel very repetitive, but the lilt in Lydia's voice is making him nervous for whatever reason.

_"There are eight guards listed on the roster and only four in that room."_

"I can't even tell how many people are in the room, how can you tell who's who?" Derek asks negatively, frowning as he follows Allison through the hallways.

_"Haircuts, Hale, count the haircuts."_

Allison stops and looks at him expectantly, while Derek mumbles "How did I miss that?" quietly to himself.

 _"Problem?"_ Stiles pipes up from wherever the hell he is.

 _"Maybe. Derek, run the cameras,"_ Lydia barks quickly, unease sinking into her tone.

Derek does. "Found them."

Then he panics. "They're doing their walkthrough an hour early."

Lydia groans loudly in everyone's ear, _"Because it's the playoffs! Game 5 of the playoffs, so they're doing their rounds an hour early so they can watch the goddamn playoffs!"_

Derek scratches his head in frustration, handing the laptop to Allison and pulling out another device from his pocket. Allison had stopped them at the door to the main control room, and now was looking over her shoulder nervously.

She listens intently to the noise in her ear, ready to bolt at any moment while Derek does something computer-y to the locked door, predicably trying to hack into the door using its passcode.

"Ten digit passcode, I'm impressed," he says to himself and Allison can't roll her eyes fast enough.

_"Where are they?"_

Allison glances to the screen, "They're at the stairwell."

Lydia swears in the background, just as the two thieves hear a very audible "Security Breach!" coming from down the hall.

_"Alright, here's what we've got to do! Allison, I need you to clear the zone by using Hale as bait."_

Allison's off without another word, leaving Derek at the door yelling after her "Wait a minute! Goddamnit, come on."

 _"Hale, they're almost there!"_ Stiles shrills in his ear, but no amount of coaxing is making the device go faster. He's only got the first four numbers of the passcode when he hearing them coming, literally barreling down the hallway.

"Hold it right there!" One of the guards yells, and about four guns are trained on Derek before he finishes. There's nothing he can do except hope the rest of them didn't leave him in the dust. He sure would've done the same.

Allison steps out behind directly behind them from _somewhere,_ looking awfully smug. The moment one of the guards notices her, it's far too late. She's got him in a headlock, simultaneously fighting off another with the side of her boot, dislocating a shoulder. She's up within the second and knocking another unconscious with one swift kick to the back of the head, completely blindsiding the last guard by throwing an elbow into his face. There's an audible crack and Derek just _knows_ that his nose is broken. if not his skull.

She's done within the minute, leaving Derek to stare at her absently, amazed and shocked and in some new light.

She just strides by him and turns the handle to the door, which had opened sometime in the midst of all her ass-kicking.

"That's what I do," she comments quietly, sliding past him. Derek can hear snickering over the coms and he just knows it's Stiles.

Within two minutes they've got the files on a flashdrive and are walking back to the elevator, grinning to each other as they're about to press the buttons to go back up.

 _"Problem."_ Stiles pipes up in their ears. _"Before you so admirably kicked ass, the guards reset all the alarms on the floors above us."_

Derek's about to ask why this is a problem when Lydia answers for him.

_"You can't go up."_

Meaning their only escape route is compromised. 

Meaning they have to go down.

To the lobby.

Where there are real people with guns.

And a nearby phone to call the police.

"Well, every man for himself," Allison says with a shrug, walking out of the elevator again.

"Go ahead, I'm the one with the files," Derek retorts.

 _"Yeah, well I'm the one with an exit!"_ Stiles adds, just that much louder.

 _"And I'm the one with the plan! Now I know you don't play well with others, but I need you to hold it together for at least the next seven minutes,"_ Lydia nearly shrieks over them. _"Now get to the elevator, and head down. We're going to the Burn Scam."_

Allison and Derek are back in the elevator within moments, heading down while simultaneously stripping out of their black clothing and into more appropriate clothing for the setting. Neither are particularly interested in what the other has underneath, so it's not particularly stressful. That is until the elevator stops and Stiles is darting inside, immediately throwing his shirt over his head.

Derek audibly swallows, looking up at the ceiling of the elevator and coughing, trying to be inconspicuous. His face is turning pink.

Allison quietly glances over at her partner, grinning as she realizes and making a small 'tisking' sound with her tongue. Derek shoots her the darkest look he can muster, and he's sure Lydia is smothering a laugh wherever the hell she is.

"You sly dog-" Allison is mouthing silently, when Stiles is finally tightening his belt and readjusting his tie, fully clothed. Derek nearly cuffs her over the head.

"Are we going to plan B?" Derek asks, voice only a little hoarse. Only a little.

_"Technically this would be plan G."_

"How many plans do we have? Is there a plan M?" Stiles asks sarcastically, suddenly moving into Derek's space and grabbing him by the tie, pulling it tighter and fixing it straight. Allison nearly falls over when she sees Derek's face.

Stiles is ever oblivious.

_"Yeah. Derek dies in plan M."_

_"_ I like plan M," Allison decides, ignoring the chastising look from Stiles as she bends down to pull a full leg brace out of her bag and velcroing it over Stiles' leg.

Derek simultaneously pulls out a piece of faux-burned skin, one that might result from a tragic fire, and starts gluing it to the side of Stiles' face, trying to ignore the way he tilts his chin up just so, stretching the skin taut over his neck and collarbones.

Allison is going to kill him.

By the time they reach the ground floor, Stiles looks like the victim of a tragic accident, while Derek and Allison help him hobble out of the elevator, in proper business attire.

There's three security guards on them in a second, but they draw their hands away from their guns when they see Stiles. They stare blankly in confusion.

Derek meets their gaze, "Oh, nice. Why don't you stare a little more!? You've gotta be kidding me!" he says loudly, feigning upset and the worst boston accent Stiles has ever heard.

The guards fumble. "Sorry! I'm sorry," they fluster, tripping over each other to step back. 

"You know what Tom, it's okay," Stiles plays along, sounding utterly distressed and even managing to trip a little on their beeline to the door.

"No, it's not," Allison snaps at the guards, who're following them to the door, lost.

"I'm really sorry!"

"I understand..." Stiles whines sadly, Allison holding the door open for him. Derek can see Lydia pull up in a van on the curb, waiting.

As soon as they guards let them outside, Stiles is picking up the pace and finally just frankly running to the car, not mindful of his "injuries" at all. Derek and Allison follow, unable to swallow down a laugh at the sight.

They pile gracelessly into the van, Stiles snorting as Lydia literally floors it away from the building. 

 

The van stops ten minutes away, at the closest empty park, after they're sure no one suspects anything yet, and **Lydia** pulls over with a swift yank of the wheel, sending the three thieves in the back into the wall of the van. They groan in protest, Derek's elbow knocking Stiles in the nose and Stiles falling onto Allison's kidney. Lydia just gets out, stalks around back and throws the van's back door open. The three pile out reluctantly, Derek having to catch Stiles from face-planting, since his hand is covering his nose and he can't see past it.

"Alright, no time for celebrating, give me the file," Lydia demands, and after a few minutes of fumbling, Derek hands her the flash drive.

They're standing, totally not looking suspicious, in a circle in the middle of this park in the dimming light. Lydia plugs the drive into a computer, and quickly sends the files out back to their rightful owner.

"Your money will be in your accounts by the end of the night," Lydia finishes, pocketing the drive for safekeeping and looking at her, er, the ragtag team in front of her.

Derek nods meaningfully, while Allison does the same.

Stiles is still grinning though, but did he ever stop? "Anybody else see how hard we rocked tonight?"

"Yeah, Yeah."

"One show only."

"No encores."

Slightly less bright, Stiles sighs and withdraws.

"I already forgot your names."

                                                     

 

The last thing Lydia was expecting to wake up to was this.

Having gone to bed relatively soundly, as the job had gone off nearly without a hitch, an angry phonecall from her newfound employer was certainly unexpected.

"You screwed me!" Matt's voice barks in her ear, effectively waking her up just that much more. Her tone still raspy from the overnight.

"What are you talking about, I watched the files being sent to you," she snarls back, the morning air less than refreshing and making her attitude sour.

"Well, I received nothing!"

Lydia groaned in upset, rolling onto her back and glaring at the ceiling. 

"I told you you couldn't trust them," she explains with a sigh.

"I'm freezing the payments, you hear me? Nobody gets paid until I get my files!"

Sitting up slowly, throwing a pillow away from her in small frustration, she massages the bridge of her nose, "Fine, I'll come by and we'll get this all straightened out-"

Matt balks, "No, no, no, you can't come here! I will text you an address and you will be there in one hour!"

The line's dead.

She is too, probably, if she can't fix this.

Because if Matt doesn't kill her for it, she knows one of the thieves will come after her when they don't get their payout.

 

 

As she enters the secluded warehouse off the address, nearly immediately she hear echoing voices. Terribly familiar, bickering, godawfully annoying voices. Of course she does.

"You want to tell me what happened to the designs?"

"What makes you think I know what happened to the designs?"

Their voices get louder the further she walks into the heart of the building. Rounding a final corner, Lydia can make out the silhouettes of one Derek Hale with a gun trained on Allison, who looks less than intimidated. 

"Stupid," Allison comments absently.

 "No, forget you. You did it, when we were coming down from the elevator-"

"You'd be smart to get that gun out of my face-"

"Hey!" Lydia snaps, heels clicking in rhythm as she strides over to the pair of them. Derek immediately focuses his gun on her then, but only for a split second, looking painfully out of his element.

"Did you do it?" Allison asks with a sneer.

Lydia frankly ignores her comment, "You seem pretty relaxed for someone who's got a gun on them."

The girl smirks, amused, looking up at Derek. 

"Safety's on."

He huffs, "Like I'd fall for that."

"No, she's right. The safety really is on," Lydia comments, prompting Derek to draw the weapon back to check. Allison snatches it out of his hands with practiced ease. Lydia turns to the girl, eyes scavenging her frame for weapons. "You armed?"

Allison shakes her head briefly, "I don't like guns."

The tell-tale sound of the safety being flicked off a gun echoes through the building.

It's from behind them, Lydia whirling around with Derek's weapon drawn to meet Stiles, standing dangerously close to the three of them. It comes as a surprise to all of them, as his lithe form approaches them, finger resting on the trigger. It sends a shiver down Lydia's spine, because she knows just how much of a loose cannon Stiles can be.

"I don't have my money," Stiles comments, slipping behind Derek to stand between him and Allison. He's lowered his gun, but Lydia knows better than to assume he can't act fast. "And that pisses me off."

Lydia stands her ground against the three criminals, "You all came here, why?"

They're silent, and Lydia knows that's the answer in itself.

"So, you all came here, because you didn't get paid...and you're pissed off?" She smothers a hysterical laugh, even though the three faces in front of her are anything but amusing. The thieves are glaring with hot intensity. "The only way to get us all in the same room, at the same time, is to tell us that we're-"

Oh, no. 

"That we're not, getting paid," Lydia finishes, voice tapering off into a whisper as she meets everyone's gaze.

They all run before they can think of a proper plan, albeit they run in the same direction- the exit.

Stiles trips up the stairs, Derek yanking him up by the scruff of his shirt and pulling him out the door.

No more than five seconds later does an explosion rattle the entire building, sending it up in smoke with ash and debris coloring the sky black.

 

 

They wake up to bright lights, the unmistakable smell of hospital, and the cold press of metal into their wrists.

Lydia is the last to wake up.

"It's about time!" Stiles' voice echoes from above her head, an irritating tang to the tone that suggests the three thieves have been awake and waiting for some time.

Upon glancing around, Lydia finds herself in a small hospital room, Allison staring her down from a stray chair in the corner. Stiles and Derek aren't in the room with them, and she can't be sure exactly where they are. She does know that she's handcuffed to the railing of the hospital bed and her head is beyond throbbing from lightheaded-ness.

"The cops showed up just as we were waking up," Allison comments briefly from her seat, in which she is also handcuffed to the armrest. 

"Where are we?" Lydia asks the room, nearly jumping as she hears Derek's irritated tone through the wall.

"County Hospital," he deadpans from the adjacent room. It's the exact mirror image of Lydia and Allison's. Derek rattles the handcuff chains on his wrists at Stiles, who is up and walking around, swinging his own set of cuffs around. He'd found a way out of them within the first five minutes of being in the room, but hadn't been so courteous to let Derek out as well.

 Stiles gives him a mocking look before rolling his eyes and turning to pace the other direction.

"We've been processed," he calls through the small vent shaft connecting the two rooms closest to the ceiling. The evidence is on their fingers, which are painted black with fingerprinting ink. 

Allison waves her fingers at Lydia menacingly, circles of ink covering her fingerprints. "Our prints have been faxed to the state police."

Lydia groans as she sits up, feeling numb all at once and trying to reign in her panic. 

"How long?" She asks.

"About 20 minutes, depending on their software," Derek comments with a sneer from his and Stiles' room.

Allison groans, "Well they printed us ten minutes ago."

"We're all going to jail," Derek says, sounding irritably casual, but Lydia can hear the unease.

The four thieves sit in tense silence, separated in pairs by the adjoining wall, and take the time to configure each their own escape plan.

"I can take the security guards," Allison says, trying to pull at the handcuffs and pick the lock with a bobby pin she pulled from her hair. It's not going well.

"If you kill anybody you'll screw up my getaway," Stiles snaps, finally ceasing his pacing and hopping back onto the hospital bed with a sigh.

Lydia muffles a frustrated shriek behind her teeth, closing her eyes and letting her mind run. 

"Stiles get me a phone! We're going to get out of this the way we came in, together," she calls, covering her eyes with her free hand.

Stiles kicks a foot purposelessly at the air in upset, growling under his breath. "This is going to suck," he notes, glancing at Derek across the room before shoving his fingers down his throat and throwing up his meager lunch onto the floor.

Derek's face crumples and shows exactly the disgust he's feeling, "Fucking hell," he remarks under his breath, moving his free hand to cover his nose and turning his eyes away.

 

It works though. Less than a minute later the doctor parades in and sticks a thermometer in Stiles' mouth. "No fever, but you might have a concussion," he comments, watching the nurse scribble down as much.

"If you feel anything else, tell the policeman outside the door right away."

The man leaves after having the cop replace Stiles' handcuffs, unsuspecting, and the nurse and policeman follow. It was only a few minutes, but enough time for Stiles to swipe a cellphone out of the doctor's jacket, and for Derek to do the same from the nurse.

From across the room they grin at each other.

"Now we just have to get out of these-"

Stiles is off the bed and striding to the small vent within the moment, metal cuffs hanging loosely to the siderails of the bed. He haphazardly tosses Derek a set of silver keys, missing the look of disbelief from the hacker. All the same though, Derek starts uncuffing himself with Stiles hops up on the bedside table and slides the stolen cellphone through the metal grate of the vent, watching through it as Lydia takes it from her own room. From this angle, it's stupidly easy to see through one side to the adjacent room.

In the girls' room, Lydia grins and tosses the phone to Allison.

"We give them what they want then, they're waiting for a phonecall," she remarks, catching the set of keys as Stiles slips them through the vent as well.

Allison dials.

 _"This is Deputy Parrish,"_ a voice answers from the other side.

"Yes, this is Detective Lieutenant Lloyd with the Illinois state police. We received the prints, but they're sending up all kinds of red flags. I've got a woman here with the FBI, can you hold please?" Allison recants, grinning wide as she hands the phone to Lydia.

"Deputy Parrish? This is Deputy Director McCumber, FBI, is our man alright?" Lydia falsifies through a convincing Chicagoan accent.

_"I'm sorry, I don't follow..."_

"Listen, one of the men you have inside there is one of ours, he's been in deep cover for five years."

_"Seriously?"_

"Yes, you should be receiving a fax any minute now confirming what I'm saying," she finishes, covering the phone with her hand.

In the next room Derek quickly rushes to create a false online profile as an FBI agent on the smartphone he'd fished out of the nurse's pocket, before mobily sending a fax to the hospitals machine.

Lydia listens as the deputy is likely handed the papers, which read a case file's information as well as Derek's FBI identity, picture included.

"Deputy, most of what I've told you is classified information. I need to know I can trust you," Lydia prods carefully.

_"Absolutely."_

 

 

Ten minutes later and the band of modern-day thieves are being put into a squad car. By Derek posing as an FBI agent.

He turns to the two deputies standing outside the hospital, giving them a solute which they eagerly return. 

"Men, thank you for your help," he comments, false gusto and all, and quickly slips into the driver's seat of the marked police car.

He doesn't so much as peel out of the hospital parking lot as just drive especially fast away from it.

He doesn't smell burning rubber, it's perfectly fine.

Who's going to pull them over anyway?

 

                                                      

 **Derek** drives them across town to an apartment block, parking the squad car into the back alley so as not to be easily seen.

"Four one-way tickets to anywhere but here, coming up," he deadpans as he unlocks a door and strides through his apartment. It's fairly large in size, made larger by the fact that there's virtually no furniture save for a large couch, a mini fridge, and the largest table of various electronics Stiles has ever seen.

"Who's place is this?" the thief asks curiously, stepping around a support beam and surveying the room.

"Mine," Derek answers offhandedly, taking a seat on the couch with a laptop resting on his thighs.

As soon as she's inside, Allison groans irritably, "I'm going to beat Daehler's face in," she mutters.

Stiles just snorts, "You won't get within 100 yards of him now that he knows your face," he observes with a sneer.

"Well, he tried to kill us!" she shouts back, fuming at how the rest of them could be so casual about the ordeal. 

"And more importantly he didn't pay us," Stiles comments before striding over and taking a seat next to Derek on the couch, leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen.

Allison balks, "How is that more important?"

"I take that personally," he responds offhandedly.

Lydia sighs at her band of thieves, beginning to pace the hardwood floors. Her heals make loud clacks with every step but it doesn't seem to dissuade her.

Derek finally pulls something up, trying to nonchalantly lean out of Stiles' space (who is hovering much too close) but to no avail when the thief just proceeds to move closer. The hacker sighs briefly, "Matt's story is actually about 90% true. He is the head of Bering Aerospace, a big rival of Pearson, who we stole the files from, but I found something else-"

He clicks on a video link from CNN.

_"Last night we had one of our plans stolen, that we'd been working on for over five years. Our computers have been sabotaged, and we aspire to find these perpetrators to the full extension of the law-"_

"Could be a cover-up," Lydia suggests from across the room.

Derek shrugs, looking at a pair of online files. "I don't think so. The time stamps on the project are set way back in 2008, there's no way to fake those," he admits.

"So we didn't steal back the plans," Allison comments quietly, as if in realization.

"No, we just stole them," Stiles confirms, scowling at the computer screen over Derek's shoulder. "Why would Matt lie to us?"

Lydia stomps a foot, frustrated, and strides back over to the rest of them. "Because you're thieves," she explains, as if it's just coming to her now as well. "If he would've hired you for a straight-up robbery, you would have seen him as a bad guy, you would have been suspicious. This way you just saw a good citizen in over his head."

"Then why didn't you see it coming?" Stiles prods with a sneer, angered.

"Because I'm not a thief," Lydia defends, put-upon, and drops the subject.

"Alright, four tickets to Rome, Fiji, Sao Paolo, and Rio," Derek says finally, breaking the tense silence a few minutes later and handing out the tickets between the four of them.

"You're running?" Lydia asks, surprised.

"You got a better idea?" Derek responds, glaring at her.

Allison pauses, folding the ticket and hiding it in her back pocket. She recognizes the look in Lydia's eyes, and takes an instinctive step back. "What, you want to run a game on this guy?" she asks, curious.

"Sure, it's nothing I haven't done while working in insurance," she admits intensely, "I mean he's greedy, thinks he's on top, he's the best kind of mark."

Stiles grins, standing, "He does think he got rid of us."

"Element of surprise."

"What's in it for me," Allison snipes, chin jutting out as she crosses her arms.

"Payback. And if it goes right, a lot of money," Lydia grins.

"And what's in it for me?" Stiles asks, stepping into her space.

"A lot of money. And if it goes right, payback."

"Hale?"

"I was just going to send a hundred porno magazines to his office, but okay sure."

Lydia smirks, nodding a few times to herself before looking up at the ragtag team.

Hitter. Hacker. Thief. And herself, a given.

"Alright, let's go get Isaac," Lydia concedes, striding out the door with purpose.

"What the hell's an Isaac?"

                                                     

 


	2. "The Double-Cross Job"

                                                       

"Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts! Un-sex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe!"

The absolute shock and horror of the audiences' faces are invisible and drowned out by the over-dramatic and frankly awful acting of the man on stage.

"Make thick my blood! Stop up the access and passage to remorse that no...." he stops a moment, a grand gesture halted mid-movement as he tries to remember his lines. "That no-"

"He is very awful," Derek comments quietly to **Lydia** , who's sitting beside him in their back-row seating.

"Is he injured?" Stiles asks seriously, looking concerned up at the rest of them. Allison just looks shell-shocked.

"He might be the worst actor I've ever seen," she adds, the three thieves looking at Lydia expecting some huge revelation, but instead she just smiles and keeps watching the monologue.

"This is not his stage," she says quietly towards the end, before standing up quietly and making her way out of the small run-down theater in silence. After having flown all the way from Chicago to New York City, the band of thieves is more than a little grumpy from the flight and the subpar performance. They begrudgingly follow her, around back of the building and into the alleyway behind. Stiles is about to say something after they've been waiting for several minutes in the dark before a small back door is pushed open, and the troubled actor from the production steps out into the chilled New York air.

This close, it's obvious that his face is charming in a prince-like way, with sharp cheekbones and a boyish grin, a mop of curly hair and an aesthetic pair of green eyes.

"No, no! I vote no!" Allison hisses quietly at Lydia, who's stepping froward like she's about to do something ridiculous like recruit the guy.

"Stiles is right, Daehler knows us. We need a fresh face," Lydia recants, stepping into view of the dimmed streetlamps and slow-clapping to get the actor's attention.

Behind her, Derek and Allison turn to glare at Stiles in blame. The youngest thief sneers back at them for no particular reason other than to be childish.

The actor looks up from his bag though, and smiles when he sees Lydia approaching.

"My only fan."

 

Old friends, Lydia had met Isaac in Paris, seven years before today. In that time, Lydia had been the one chasing him around the city, trying to reclaim a stolen piece of artwork for a client, back when she had been working for Beacon Insurance Company, that is. When she'd finally caught up with him, he'd shot her in the shoulder on his way out. But not before she shot him in the back. But that was seven years ago, when Lydia Martin was the White Night and Isaac was the Black King.

 

"I'm a citizen now, honest," Isaac says with a smirk, holding up his hands in innocence.

Lydia answers his smirk with one of her own, "I'm not."

"You're playing my side?" Isaac asks curiously, glancing over her shoulder at the three silhouettes behind her. The three are arguing, hushed, as always, Allison doing her best not to crack the two boys' skulls together for more than one reason. Isaac grins at them, before turning back to Lydia. "I always knew you had it in you."

"So you're in?" 

He nods, if a bit enthusiastically. "I wouldn't miss this."

Stiles breaks the silence when he throws one of his shoes at Derek and ends up setting off a car alarm a block down the street.

Lydia sighs, taking Isaac by the arm and leading him towards their car. The other three already shuffling quickly towards it, and by extension away from Lydia and her condescending eyes.

"Alright, let's go break the law one more time."

 

Back in Chicago, and Derek's apartment, Allison nearly trips over Stiles' legs propped up on the coffee table. He gives her a blank stare, but it's unprovoked further.

"Alright, Matt Daehler, Executive Vice President in charge of new technology development at Bering Aerospace," Derek begins, more for Isaac to get him caught up than for the rest of them, but it's a nice refresher course on their mark. Since their decision to get revenge on their last employer, Derek had set up a serious of tv screens on the largest wall of his apartment. It was a necessary addition, he decides currently as he aims a remote at the screens and pulls up several pictures of relevance. Like a slide show. Of crime.

"Rich daddy, trust fund, Yale graduate, blah blah blah," Stiles adds carelessly, mooching popcorn out of Derek's lap and ignoring the pointed looks to stop.

Derek glances at Stiles in false irritance before looking back to the screen, "So Bering is in charge of all the big contracts, very classified stuff."

"Can we use that?" Lydia asks, watching the tense looks Isaac and Allison are giving each other from across the room.

"I don't think so, Matt is in charge of their commercial airlines."

Lydia pauses, allowing a small silence to brew.

"I know when you sent Matt the designs you weren't supposed to make any copies," she starts, looking pointedly at Derek.

"No I promise," he responds with false offense, "I would never. That would be very wrong." 

"Show me your copies."

Derek watches her with a neutral expression, before his facade cracks a wry grin and he nods, pulling up a set of blueprints on the flat screens.

"That's an airplane," Stiles comments to himself, ignoring the groans of 'obviously' in the background.

Derek rolls his eyes, "Look here, Daehler and his rival, Pearson, were head to head for nearly five years. Both wanted the lead in the business of these new, high-tech planes worth a lot of money."

Stiles nods, understanding, popping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. "So Pearson got there first, Daehler took the shortcut."

"So he's got a rival, this is good," Lydia comments to herself.

Isaac looks over at her, curious, "What're you thinking, Lyds?"

She pauses, nodding a few times, "I'm thinking the double cross." And with that she walks away.

Derek, Allison, and Stiles turn to Isaac, who looks much less confused than they do.

"Well, she hasn't changed a bit."

 

"Mr. Daehler, your 12 o'clock is here," the receptionist calls as Matt walks towards his office.

 _"Alright, **Isaac**. Show us what you've got,"_   Lydia pipes in Isaac's ear as he stands up to greet their mark.

It only makes sense that Isaac be the ringer in this con, as Matt knows the others' faces clear as day. It only makes the plan that much harder, trying to sneak around their former employer. 

Isaac spares a moment to give him an alluring grin, eyes sharp and en pointe as he extends for a handshake. "Mr. Daehler," he greets with a charming quirk of his lips, pulling out a business card from his sleeve and turning it over in Matt's hand as he returns the gesture, expression confused and a bit flustered. After all, he hadn't actually had a 12 o'clock appointment. The businessman seems to run with it though, as soon as Isaac speaks up again. "Joseph Myers, South African Commercial Transport and Trade Initiative."

" _Here it comes,_ " Derek comments in their ears, audibly stating what the rest of the team, sans Lydia, are expecting. Which is a mountain of horrible acting, over-emphasized phrasings, and incorrect grammar all rolled into one sub-par grifter.

"You government?" Matt asks, looking at the business card curiously while subtly walking back towards his room.

"No, no. Private Business. We're looking to encourage infrastructure development and economic renewal," Isaac spouts off without a hitch, managing to sound completely intelligent and completely confusing all at once.

Matt seems to think so as well, and takes an unconscious step back. "I'll be honest I have no idea what all that means in English."

Isaac grins, knowing he's hooked him. "We create jobs and trade in South Africa."

 _"But..."_ Derek pauses, _"He's not awful?"_

Lydia smiles, proud, and paces back and forth behind Derek's chair. _"Isaac Lahey is the best actor you've ever seen,"_ she mentions, smug, _"When he's breaking the law."_

"Well, good luck with all that, I don't think I can help- I don't think anyone can help with that," Matt plays off, setting his briefcase down on his desk and leaning on it.

Isaac just smiles, an air of confidence to him, and tips his head towards the door. "C'mon. Let's go talk this over somewhere a little less, formal, shall we?"

He then promptly begins to lead the way out of the office, a bumbling Matt following hesitantly behind him. Isaac doesn't look back though.

"But, um, no. I don't think-" 

It works all the same, Matt trailing after Isaac out of the building, confused but intrigued, as most people are when faced with someone like Isaac Lahey.

And just like that, Matt Daehler is out of his office.

 _"Alright,"_ Lydia speaks up, _"And...now."_

Derek nods to himself back at the apartment, fumbling around haphazardly on his laptop and finally sending a small bug into the receptionist's computer.

"No. Oh, no. C'mon, please!" The receptionist reaches for the phone within moments.

Derek clears his throat, listening over the coms as Stiles answers her on the other line, after Derek had rerouted the call.

"Hello, I.T." Stiles answers with false enthusiasm from where he's currently climbing into Matt's office through the window, narrowly avoiding being seen by the receptionist as he hides behind the desk.

"Yes, hi. This is Matt Daehler's office, my computer just completely crashed," the woman spouts nervously.

"Oh, well I'm sorry to hear about that," Stiles comments sarcastically to himself, "Have you tried turning it on and off again?"

Back in the apartment, Lydia glares at Derek, who is smiling smugly to himself. _"It's a computer thing, I taught him that."_ She rolls her eyes. Hard.

"We've got someone on your floor already," Stiles finishes with a grin, promptly hanging up and waiting for Allison to join the show.

"Somebody call I.T.?" Allison asks the receptionist, decked out in a large set of glasses and a worn-down pair of jeans.

Slowly standing up, Stiles makes his way quietly around Matt's desk while Allison is distracting the receptionist and effectively blocking her view of Stiles altogether.

" _Now shouldn't I be playing the computer guy_?" Derek asks irritably over the coms.

" _No, I want you to actually be the computer guy_ ," Lydia counters, matter-of-factly, glaring holes into the back of his head as if it might demonstrate how stupid a question that was.

Stiles sighs, ignoring the voices in his head and quickly plugs a flashdrive into the open computer on Matt's desk. Making copies and saving them to the drive, he pulls something from his pocket, holding it in front of his eyes and glaring at it.

"Don't you think this is a little gaudy for a hidden recorder?" 

It's about the size of a roll of pennies and has a large, flashing red light attached to it, bright enough to see practically a mile away.

"That's the point, Stiles. We want him to find it, eventually," Lydia recants in his ear, a frustrated reminder of the talk they'd already had on it.

He groans, but puts the flashy thing underneath the desk drawer anyway. It makes him feel sloppy, like he's screwing it up, and blowing the con, but if Lydia insists he's not going to fight her on it.

Sighing, he pushes the window back open and just _steps outside._

Without any equipment and nearly four stories off the ground.

_"Did he just-"_

_"Yes."_

 

Outside, Isaac is leading Matt around like a lost dog, spouting big words in a flawless South African accent and stringing the mark along just so.

"Mr. Myers, I don't think I can help you after all," Matt says, after having weighed the pros and cons of Isaac's monologue. 

"I understand," Isaac says, feigning disappointment with a put-upon sigh. "I'll just take it to Pearson."

Pausing, Matt seems to stop in his tracks, "Woah, wait-"

"No, it's okay. I think Pearson might be the better choice anyway, they have more experience in this sort of matter," Isaac recants with a decisive nod to himself.

Matt waits a long time before responding to that, but appears to be fuming under his skin. 

"I'm aware that you're manipulating me-"

"I should hope so," Isaac chuckles lightly.

Before Isaac can let out another word the mark concedes, "Alright, I'll take the meeting," he agrees, sighing but somehow managing a smile. He goes for a handshake, but is casually shot down when Isaac grins and begins to walk out.

"Excellent, then I'll have my office call yours. Day after tomorrow?"

Nodding, Matt fumbles for a response, "Sure, It's a pleasure doing business with..." 

But Isaac's already gone. 

Hook, line, sinker.

 

 

36 hours later and it's nearing 1:00am, **all** five thieves sitting in their respective places around Derek's apartment, in tense silence.

Despite the many consecutive hours they've already spent in each other's presence, they don't really know each other, and mutual trust and respect is a complete other topic.

Breaking the law together has built a flimsy relationship between them, one that is quite easily broken and has only one thing keeping it together, Lydia.

Hanging off the back of the couch, Stiles has been humming nonsensical tunes for the past thirty minutes while he repeatedly times himself on how quickly he can pick a spare bike lock, one he'd found in the dumpster outside several hours before.

Derek's been planning, nonstop, since they fell silent. Being the type of person who hates going in blind, it's the only thing he can keep himself busy with that does raise his blood pressure and send him into a fit of silent anxiety. He's spent hours creating dozens and dozens of CIA-grade fake profiles for each of them, name after name after name. He's researched Matt Daehler and everyone he's ever met, and knows their bios by heart. He's planned their heist that's coming up very quickly, making sure nothing, on his end, could possibly go awry. But he still clicks away on his computer, desperate to find anything to occupy his mind from second-guessing.

As far fetched as it seems, Isaac has been trying on clothes. Suits and ties and slacks and scarfs and button-ups litter the bathroom floor and the space outside it. He's been on edge, ever since Lydia had criticized him on a crooked tie while he was stringing Matt along. She'd said the right outfit can make the con, and the wrong one can blow it. Not a button out of place. He's obsessing, but can't seem to stop.

Allison, while sharpening her knives, is the calmest of them, save Stiles who doesn't seem to have the emotion to be nervous about anything. She's not completely familiar with cons, and perhaps that can account for her cool attitude, but what she is familiar with is tense, high-risk situations. She's had guns in her face uncountable times, been cuffed to any dangerous thing thinkable (railroad tracks, active bomb, underside of a cargo plane, a wild bear). Lying to someone's face and putting on a show aren't, by comparison, nerve wracking. 

Lydia is pacing. Walking laps around the apartment in her bare feet, wearing down the hardwood and ignoring Derek when he mentions it. She knows that she's the most at risk here. The others are masters at escape, can talk their way out of anything. She's just the one with the big picture thinking, she's just the one with the plan. So if any one of her thieves go off the rails, she's responsible and she's the one ending up in the dirt.

"Alright, I think it's time for us to sit down and talk," she announces, stopping in her tracks and dragging out a chair from the closet. She pounds on the bathroom door, summoning Isaac. She settles into the chair, situating herself in front of the couch and crossing her legs and arms expectantly.

Derek looks up from the screen, eyes looking hollow and droopy, only furthering the face in looking more pissed off than usual. He doesn't argue though, just stands and makes his way over to the couch.

Nearly falling over backwards, Stiles jolts forward and looks at Lydia curiously while Allison and Isaac join him. "Talk?"

They form a half circle on the sofa, Derek taking to sitting on the ground in front of the couch while the others crowd onto Stiles' left. It's a tight fit, but there's breathing room at least. Stiles immediately takes to pulling at Derek's hair with interest, no show of hesitation whatsoever. They all stare, holding their breath and waiting for Derek to throw a fit about it, but the hacker just sighs and manages to look positively murderous without actually protesting.

Allison grins at that, while the remaining two just look confused and surprised at Stiles' oblivion. It's been obvious from the start that Stiles lacks the natural social graces of even a five year old, that he doesn't know how to properly interact with people. It's then that Lydia knows what to do about it.

 "Icebreakers," is all she says. 

After a small chorus of _'really'_ and _'you can't be serious'_ , Lydia clears her throat and waits for the quiet.

"We won't be able to successfully take Daehler for all he's worth if we can't even hold a conversation between the five of us," she clarifies, watching as the understanding dawns in their eyes, "We need an icebreaker."

Isaac huffs and pulls his scarf tighter around his neck, but does nothing else. "One of those little games they do at leadership conventions and college orientations?" 

With a nod Lydia has the whole room sighing.

"What, like trust falls?" Stiles pipes up from where he's playing with the small hairs at the back of Derek's neck, eyes downcast and innocently curious. Derek's subconsciously leaning back into his fingers, prompting a strangled laugh out of Isaac when Allison elbows him hard in the ribs.

"Sort of," Lydia concedes.

"We could play Two Truths and a Lie," Allison suggests finally, after there's a short pause.

"No," Derek deadpans.

"Yes," Lydia decides, and that's that. No one fights her on it. "You can explain the rules, Allison."

The brunette smiles softly, and it's in that moment that Lydia realizes just how much one could underestimate the girl. She's beautiful and has a sweet exterior, and Lydia would pay to see the first guy who though less of her.

"Well it's pretty self-explanatory. Just state three things about yourself, and one of them has to be a lie. Then we just decide which one we think is the lie," Allison elaborates easily, leaning back and relaxing just so. It's becoming easier already to be in each other's presence.

 "Isaac goes first," Lydia decides with a sharp nod toward the boy, who's been subtly retracting himself from the conversation. He glares at her, and sighs in defeat. 

It's a difficult game for the lot of them, and Lydia knows it. Revealing key pieces of information about yourself to a room of thieves isn't a pleasant experience. Strengths and weaknesses and dreams and fears. It's a conman's worst nightmare, to be figured out in such a willing way. That's why it's perfect for them, even if everyone's a little stiff at the idea.

"Alright fine, um..." Isaac begins, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them as he thinks. "I can speak six languages, um, I was once engaged to a Russian mobster's daughter, and...Isaac isn't my real name." He finishes with a short nod, but upon looking at the rest of the thieves, he smiles. They're faces are skeptical, and curious by extent. Lydia looks particularly surprised though, and seems to be having the most trouble deciding.

Allison speaks first, "I'm going with the last one being a lie," and Lydia nods her agreement. She's known Isaac the longest, but she still seems skeptical to answer.

Grinning up at Isaac, Stiles covers Derek's eyes for no particular reason. Derek doesn't make an effort to move them when he says, "2nd one."

"Same," Stiles says airily as he moves to continue running his hands through Derek's hair. He seems sufficiently occupied by it, so no one's complaining.

Slowly, Isaac shakes his head, "I can speak seven languages," he answers while Lydia gives him the strangest look.

"What's your real name then?" she prods, eyebrows furrowed. Isaac's grin turns to a sideways smirk.

"As if I'd just tell a room of thieves," he concedes, and sits back to watch the rest of the game in a new peace of mind.

Stiles barks an overly-loud laugh at that, causing everyone - even Derek - to look at him strangely.

"Alright, Alright. Stiles, you go next," Lydia intervenes. 

The thief grins and pulls Derek's ear, narrowly avoiding the hand that swats at him for it - Derek's only protest so far. He settles back into the couch, holding up three fingers. 

"I once stole the Star of Africa, the Hope Diamond, and the Allnatt Diamond," he lists off, putting a finger down with each name of diamond. "All in one night," he adds, smug.

The room isn't quite in awe as much as they're just frankly stunned.

"The Hope Diamond has been in the Smithsonian since 1958 so I'm going with that one," Lydia says, the other immediately agreeing.

Stiles just smiles and resumes running his hands through Derek's hair, sated. For several moments the room is quiet, everyone looking at Stiles expectantly. It's to no use as the thief carries on, oblivious.

"Stiles," Allison asks finally. He meets her gaze, "Well...?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, which one was the lie?"

Stiles' face scrunches up, confused, "Why would I lie about my diamonds?"

The whole room groans, just as Stiles continues with "Diamonds aren't something I joke about."

Holding in a laugh, Isaac throws a hand over his eyes "I don't think you understand the game, Stiles."

"Diamonds aren't a game, Isaac."

Allison nearly howls in laughter, missing the pointed glare from Derek, who turns around finally to face Stiles.

"Stiles-"

"You couldn't possibly have stolen all three in one night!" Lydia shouts good-naturedly, laughing all the same, "Not while the Star of Africa is in the UK, and the Allnatt and the Hope Diamond at the Smithsonian. Not to mention that none of the diamonds were reported stolen," she comments, everyone turning to watch Stiles shrug with a smirk and suddenly no one doubts his story.

"Well, yeah, I put them back," Stiles says offhandedly, meeting Derek's gaze with a quirk of the lips.

"And why'd you do that?" the hacker asks. Stiles slowly moves his index finger closer and closer to Derek's left eye, prompting Derek to catch him by the wrist and hold it there. It only makes the thief grin wider.

"They weren't as hard to steal as I thought they'd be. I felt bad about it, actually," he admits, just as Derek gently releases his wrist and huffs, feigning disinterest. Lydia watches Stiles with some newfound respect, while Allison and Isaac are laughing their asses off - for different reasons altogether.

The night goes on as predicted. They find out that Derek has an arch-nemesis, though gives no name, and has hacked into the White House's email in under two days, but that he's never actually killed anyone before.

Allison reveals that her father is a conman as well, that she has fought in three wars in her lifetime, but has actually killed someone before.

Lydia admits she was married once, was a quick study at MIT while later taking classes at Berkeley for law, but has never been to jail.

The night ends just as it began: in silence. Given, it's a different kind of quiet. At some point Stiles ended up on the floor next to Derek, and promptly fell asleep on his shoulder. (Derek was awake at that point, but somehow managed to fall asleep anyhow.) Allison's head is in Isaac's lap, and it's all nice.

Lydia doesn't sleep though, knowing very well that she should.

She stays awake and paces the floors until morning, watching her team, sated, and anxiously waiting for an alarm to sound.

 

 

It feels like they've been waiting for the morning for days, rather than a few hours.

When it comes, they're ready.

For the most part.

Matt Daehler pulls up to their meeting place, a flashy office building with a dozen or so floors still being renovated, in a shiny black sedan. 

On the other hand, Lydia and Derek sit outside at a small cafe across the street, close enough to intervene if something goes wrong but far enough to not be seen.

"Alright, Isaac, he's on site," she narrates, bringing a steaming cup of coffee to her lips and watching Matt walk into the complex.

 

"What?" **Isaac** balks. He, Stiles, and Allison freeze in their tracks, staring at each other in quiet panic. Reacting quickest, Stiles darts down the hallway and nearly breaks down the door to the stairwell as he lunges through it. "Lydia, I'm not ready! I'm still on the twelfth floor!" Isaac continues to shout, growing anxious.

 _"Isaac if you don't meet him now in the lobby, he's going to go look in the building directory- guys, we are not in the building directory!"_   Lydia whispers harshly in their ears.

"Why aren't we in the directory?" Allison asks, angry as she breaks into a small run, ducking past the windows of their stolen room, which now houses a dozen South African men freshly flown in from said country. She stops at the door, avoiding sight, and begins replacing the sign outside it with one that says South African Trade Initiative.

Isaac frantically presses the down button for the elevator, which is nearly ten floors away and not moving fast enough, panic setting in.

 _"I don't know, because they're fake offices?"_ Derek snaps from across the street, ground level.

 

"Alright, Stiles, you have ten seconds to get Isaac to the lobby. I'll distract him," _Lydia_ spouts as she stands abruptly and stalks racily across the street. Derek watches her go from the table, close to hiding behind his laptop. The redhead whips out a policeman's nightstick from her purse and walks purposefully towards the building. Veering off just so from the doors, she approaches the nearest unsuspecting car parked outside and smashes the window in.

Inside the lobby, a few heads turn at the sound and subsequent car alarm blaring outside, their curiosity getting the best of them. 

After smashing the windows of three other cars, their alarms impossible to ignore, Lydia quickly walks away, leaving a hoard of furious businessmen and women in her wake. They rush out in a pack, screeching and yelling obscenities and fighting with _each other_ of all people. Matt is one of the onlookers, peeking out of the building's front windows but not going so far as to go outside, likely unworried because he himself had been dropped off, and hadn't driven there.

 

" **Isaac**!" Stiles shouts, kicking open the door to the stairwell. Isaac steps away from the slow-moving elevators, just as he's being thrown what looks like a rockclimbing harness.

"What's this for?" he asks, catching it and following Stiles through the door.

"Speed," is his answer. Tied to the middle of the railing from the floor above theirs is a grappling rig, a long black rope hanging loosely towards the ground floor, it's end isn't visible from this floor. Against his better judgement, Isaac looks down over the edge and quite possibly swallows his tongue in the process. Stiles is quickly strapping him in, though, not giving him an ounce of a choice before he's dragging the grifter towards the edge.

"Oh no, you can't be serious," Isaac protests, taking several attempted steps backwards, but Stiles is admittedly stronger than his physique suggests. The thief hauls Isaac forward, strapping himself in and then Isaac as well. 

"Totally serious," Stiles retorts, facing Isaac with a grin. "We're going to have to be closer than that," he comments, clasping a hand around Isaac's harness and pulling towards him until their noses are nearly touching, far closer into personal space than possible. 

Stiles jumps, and by extent Isaac is strung along with him, yelling the whole way down. It doesn't drown out Stiles' laughter.

They reach the ground floor seconds later, Isaac unpleasantly nauseous with Stiles, pleasantly buzzed. The grifter stumbles out the door, trying his best to stay upright as he half-jogs towards Matt, who's at the building directory, looking confused.

Just in time, Isaac feels his stomach finally settle, tapping the mark on the shoulder with a pleasant, if strained, smile.

Matt jumps, turning around and facing him in surprise. He eyes Isaac curiously, but seems to accept it all the same.

"Our offices are on the twelfth floor," Isaac explains, while subtly trying to catch his breath.

"You, uh... you have a glow," Matt comments.

"Oh, just, excited!" Isaac covers, turning and leading the way to the elevators, trying to wipe any excess perspiration off his cheeks in the process. He's sure he can hear Stiles chuckling in his ear.

The pair step into the elevator, Isaac giving Matt a sideways glance.

The coms are completely silent, every one of them aware of how much weight Isaac's next move has on their play.

"One thing," he begins, keeping his tone casual and only moving his eyes to face Matt, rather than his whole body. It's a technique to show submission, rather than to intimidate with dominance, as Isaac has been playing formerly. It goes to show how important his words are, but not to the mark. "The business people bringing you this opportunity to work with their government, they'll expect some... compensation," he finishes, "not a bribe, of course-"

Matt nods knowingly, "A finder's fee."

Isaac smiles warmly, holding back a grin as he closes it with an "exactly".

"I thought your job was to eliminate graft and stealing," Matt comments daringly.

"My job is to keep it manageable," Isaac responds, stepping out of the elevator as the doors open, leading the mark down the hall and opening the doors to the meeting room. Allison ducks out of sight just in time.

The South African Business people stand as the two enter, greeting them with warm words and handshakes.

 

At the ground level cafe, **Stiles** joins Lydia and Derek at their outdoor table, dropping into a chair next to the hacker and immediately propping his feet up on the table. Derek gives him a sideways glare, without heat, and moves his laptop away from his feet and any half-empty coffee cups.

"Nice job with the zip line," Lydia appraises, not taking her eyes off the front doors of the building. The thief outwardly laughs, crossing his arms and grinning.

"He totally thought he was going to break a leg," Stiles snickers, earning odd looks but nothing more, "Not bad for a first time."

He looks up, watching Derek as he takes a sip from his Styrofoam cup, "What's that?"

"Coffee," Derek deadpans, eyes still watching his laptop with intent. It's how he misses when Stiles snatches the cup out of his hand and takes a long drag of it. His throat move to protest but it's too late, his eyes boring holes into the sides of the thief's head as he continues to drink it, occasionally making disgusted faces.

"This isn't very good."

"Well, it's mine, so-"

 _"So what do you think?"_ Matt's voice resonates from Isaac's com, background noise but still very audible.

"He's closing the deal," Lydia hushes them.

 

"I believe we will be able to do a lot of business with you, sir," one of the South Africans affirms with a nod.

There's a moment of silence where **Isaac** clears his throat. He looks to Matt who sits on his left, then back to the group of business people in front of him. "Now about... the other matter."

"Of course," the South African Man agrees, a bit resigned, but pulls out an envelope from his inside pocket.

Isaac stands quietly, walking over and retrieving the envelope before bringing it back to his seat. He pockets the South Africans' check and pulls out one of his own, unnoticed by his audience. Isaac slides the new envelope over to Matt, who looks up at him for confirmation. 

Once Isaac's given him a small nod, the mark opens the envelope with care, eyes going wide as he looks over the blank piece of paper's only print: **$1,000,000.00**

"Is that agreeable?" Isaac prompts.

"Oh, I think we can work something out." 

Isaac grins, "Excellent."

 

They all reconvene outside the building, after Isaac had rather pleasantly saw Matt Daehler off. 

 "We got him?" Lydia asks, approaching  from behind him with three others trailing behind.

"We own him," is Isaac's answer.

"Ok, let's go. We've got a busy day tomorrow," Lydia announces, leading them forward and back towards Derek's apartment.

"This is going to work, right?" Allison asks, unsure.

"Absolutely."

                                                        

_"Do we have everything?"_

_"Yeah, Isaac's on his way to Daehler's shareholders' meeting and afterparty now. The South African representatives are on their way as well."_

_"Good. Let's go watch Matt Daehler destroy his own company."_

**Isaac** is the only one on the front lines, stepping out of his taxi and greeting the two South African reps at the door before leading them inside. 

The party is in full swing, as 'full swing' as any business party can get. Every person or small business that has ever bought a share, had a hand in the making, or works for Bering Aerospace is there, kissing up to executives and all around celebrating their success. Apparently, after Daehler had presented his stolen idea to the board of directors, stocks had gone up. There was good reason to celebrate, and it was painfully obvious.

Leaving the representatives at the refreshment table, Isaac approaches Daehler among the crowd. He smiles charmingly, ducking around in front of the mark to get his attention. 

"Well aren't you the cat that ate the canary," Isaac comments warmly, watching Matt closely as he reacts.

"Does it show?" the mark answers with a small laugh, and Isaac knows almost instantly.

"Terrible poker face," he answers.

When Matt looks over his shoulder to see the South Africans, he smiles. "Why don't we get this over with now?" he asks pleasantly, but not convincingly enough.

"Now? You have the whole payment-"

"Absolutely I think we should make the deal right now, make even bigger headlines," Matt explains, "I'll take them into a conference room and we'll get it settled."

Isaac nods suspiciously, but smiles through it, "I'll be right back," he explains and begins his walk back to the refreshment table.

 _"Does he know?"_ Lydia whispers in his ear.

_"He has to. He has to know there's no 'South African Trade Initiative' in the city! We stood outside in broad daylight, We left the huge transmitter in his office-"_

"He knows," Isaac answers, just as he reaches the South Africans and pulls them along, following Daehler up several floors and into one of his conference rooms. 

Matt is unbelievably smug as he shows them the way in with a 'make yourselves comfortable' and goes to stand at the head of the table while everyone else sits down.

"I assume we all understand the terms of this agreement?" one of the South African men says, directing the attention to Matt. 

"Well, I'll tell you," Matt says, voice turning cold, "the exact terms of this agreement are these-" he pulls out his cellphone and presses a button, looking at the room as if he'd just won the damn lottery. A shrill beep emits from the phone, and four FBI agents storm into the room, badges flashing.

"FBI, nobody move," one of them calls over the room. "Are you alright sir?"

"I'm fine-" Matt begins.

"Yes, of course," one of the South African's says, standing.

A pair of agents take Matt by the arms, and Isaac watches on with amusement as so much confusion goes through his expression.

"Hold on, wait," he protests, pulling his arms back, "What are you looking at me for, the criminals are sitting right over there. Look at them." He points at the pair of representatives, who look absolutely murderous. When no one answers he continues, "Listen, I spoke to Special Agent Higgins-"

"I'm Special Agent Higgins," the FBI answers, flashing a badge at him that is completely real compared to those that Derek can whip up in his spare time. "Matt Daehler, you're under arrest for soliciting a bribe from these South African government officials."

"No, no, no, I'm not even- These aren't even South Africans-"

"Of course we are," one of them protests.

"Um, no-"

"Your man knew this when he contacted us last week."

Matt pauses then, "My man? Who-" He looks around the office, but Isaac isn't anywhere in sight. "Joseph? Joseph!"

Everyone stares at him, judgemental and frankly slightly disturbed. 

"Listen, Special Agent, Joseph Myers works for them-"

"Ridiculous! He contacted us on your behalf," the South African official states. "He told us he worked directly under you."

 

 

**24 hours earlier**

 

_As the South African business people step out of the elevator onto the twelfth floor, Isaac smiles openly, holding out a hand._

_"Joseph Myers from Bering Aerospace, directly under Matt Daehler."_

 

"But, he took me to 'their office'," Matt fights, air-quoting.

"We do not have an office in this city."

Matt groans, "Exactly!"

"We met him at your other office."

 

**24 hours earlier**

_Allison plugs in the electric screwdriver, holding the sign reading **Berin**_ _**g Aerospace** steady against the wall beside the conference room's door. She manages to duck out of sight before she hears Isaac's "Joseph Myers from Bering Aerospace, directly under Matt Daehler."_

"The shareholders!" Matt realizes just as the sirens from dozens of police cars are pulling up outside. He darts out of the room and scrambles to make his way down to the main floor, where party guests are watching, confused, as the building is being flooded with policeman and FBI agents. Strung out and desperate, Matt makes his way into the crowd to try and control the situation.

"Um, Everybody if i can have your attention! It's just, it's a permit problem-"

"Is anyone else here involved in the bribe?" Special Agent Higgins announces into the crowd, the shareholders looking appalled and ready to flee.

Matt nearly pulls his hair in frustration, "There's no bribe!"

"I handed this man a check for $200,000 dollars!" the South African official counters, loudly and definitely audible.

"I wasn't handed any-"

It dawns on him.

 

**24 hours earlier**

_Isaac stands quietly, walking over and retrieving the envelope before bringing it back to his seat. He pockets the South Africans' check and pulls out one of his own, unnoticed by his audience. Isaac slides the new envelope over to Matt, who looks up at him for confirmation._

 

"We've got people searching the computers, files, everything," one of the agents announces, and everything falls apart.

No matter how quickly they try to get rid of the evidence of the stolen airplane blueprints, the Bering Aerospace employees can't get rid of it fast enough. They're shredding paper after paper, and throwing the remains out the windows to scatter, deleting file after file on their computers. 

From outside where the five thieves stand, it's a pretty picture.

Red and blue flashing lights, shreds of white paper floating around the streets like snow, people striding in and out of the building with huge boxes of criminal evidence.

It's hard not to smile.

Lydia's grinning as she dials up Matt's number on her phone, listening to it ring thrice before a sullen voice answers.

"You should've just paid us," she comments, her four criminals standing around her looking smug and deserving it.

There's a silence.

 _"I found the transmitter,"_ Matt protests.

"You found the transmitter with the blinking light," she responds, "We wanted you to figure some of it out."

_"I am Matt Daehler, I'm going to beat this!"_

"Aren't you forgetting about the bribe?"

_"They can't prove anything, I didn't get any money."_

Lydia grins, ignoring the noise behind her as Stiles jumps onto Derek's back with an accomplished battle cry. He doesn't so much respond to it as just stand there and look pissed off until Stiles rests his chin over his shoulder and bumps heads with him on purpose that he's slowly opening up, happy for their success. 

Allison is torn between a look that says she might throw up or die of laughter.

"Well, we left you some money for proof. It doesn't account for all of it, though, I kept a little to buy a truly impressive number of shoes," Lydia explains, turning around to watch her thieves' shenanigans with a fond frown. 

"Notice your stocks have plummeted, what, 30%? We didn't need them to take you to jail, we just needed them to show and take boxes out of your office," she continues, "All day long. In front of tv cameras. Anyway, just don't mention us to the feds, or next time we won't be so nice."

Promptly hanging up, Lydia smiles to herself, proud, before looking to her colleagues. Derek, somewhat hindered by a Stiles on his back, hands out four envelopes to each of them. Upon opening them, Isaac's eyes go wide.

"Woah, that's a lot of money."

Derek glances around at them, meeting their shocked faces with indifference. "I'm very good at what I do," is all he says.

Stiles' mouth is hovering open, "This is _the_ score." He says.

Allison smiles, "Somebody kiss this man so I don't have to."

Turning his head and quickly pressing his lips to the side of Derek's head, Stiles jumps off his back entirely. He steps up beside him, staring intensely at the number on the check.

Stiles is oblivious to the odd glances he gets from everyone, as always, and also the furious red blush that Derek can't hide.

"This is it, this is retirement money," Allison comments.

"This is go legit and buy an island money," Isaac corrects, earning a grin.

The bustling around them stops for a moment, gives way for a small silence.

 "Pleasure working with you," Lydia interrupts, looking at her shoes. She can almost feel the frowns on their faces.

"One show only."

"No encores."

Stiles sighs, "I already forgot your names," he recants hesitantly.

And they walk away, Lydia first, to different directions, different lives.

 

As **Lydia** clicks down the sidewalk, she wonders if she ever really wore the white hat, or if it was always a little black.

"You know, I never had that great a time on a job before," Derek comments, falling in stride a step behind her.

"It's a walk away," Lydia responds, unfazed, and continues walking.

"I'm really good at one thing-"

"Stiles-"

"Just one thing," Stiles continues, beside Derek and moving, "But you, you know other things and I can't just stop doing my one thing, I can't retire!"

"You want to know what I think," Allison asks, suddenly beside her.

"No really," Lydia answers honestly, to no use.

"I think someone like you can't be out of the game," Allison adds, just as Lydia's phone begins to shrill in her pocket. She picks it up immediately, but doesn't even have time to answer before she sees Isaac standing in her path, phone pressed to his ear.

She hangs up as he approaches, his charming grin ever present.

"You pick the jobs," he says.

"My job is helping people," she protests, albeit not in the most convincing way, "I find bad guys."

"Then find some bad guys," Isaac counters, "Bad guys have money."

"You can be the black queen and the white knight."

 

                                                        

 

"I'm sorry," the woman cries, "It's just, it's been five years. And Alan still has ten more years on his sentence."

Allison goes to comfort her, holding a box of tissues and giving her reassuring rubs on the back. "Take your time," she placates.

"He was set up, he never killed that man! He's just been in some bad debts, and the guy he's taking loans from..."

Lydia sighs, crossing her legs and leaning back into her seat. Stiles leans on the armrest of her chair, Derek looming over his shoulder, and Isaac standing to her right.

"People like that," Lydia starts, "They have all the money, all the power and they use it to make people like you go away."

She smiles then, deceptively aesthetic and both parts confident.  

"Right now you are playing a game, you're playing roulette. And you can bet on the government, you can bet on the jury, you can bet on human nature and miracles from god..."

"Or you can bet on us."

 

                                                        

 

  _Next: "The Wedding Job"_


	3. "The Wedding Job"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to set this story in the city of Chicago, IL instead of where Teen Wolf or Leverage are set (Beacon Hills, CA and Boston, MA respectively) mostly due to the fact that that's where I'm personally from, but also because I feel like I read too many stories set in California or New York. Something new would be nice.
> 
> Also: If you haven't noticed yet, it's been a challenge for me to write this when the action is happening in two different places at the same time, so I've elected to put an extra space when changing location, and also when talking over the "coms" to italicize the dialogue that would only be heard in that location, if that makes sense.  
> If it's at all confusing, let me know, but it tends to be pretty straightforward.

                                                       

It's not particularly big, but big enough to house five offices, a front desk and waiting area, and a briefing room complete with several flat screen televisions, per Derek's request.

They own the entire eighth floor of the building complex. Well Lydia does.

 

"From the first job?" **Stiles** recants, Allison and Isaac on his right and left as the elevator doors open onto the eighth floor. The thief leads the way down the hallway, "I put all that money in a Swiss bank account."

Allison gives him a look, flanking his left side as they move, "Millions of dollars and you didn't buy anything?"

"I don't like _stuff_ , I like _money_ ," he clarifies, smirk apparent as they stop in front of the only door at the end of the hallway.

"I bought a retirement home in Ireland," Isaac says, "And Dubai. And Tokyo," he continues, grinning ear to ear.

"What about you?" Stiles asks, turning to Allison.

She rolls her eyes, "Yeah, I'm not about to tell a pair of thieves what I did with a multi-million dollar payout."

"Don't you trust us?" Isaac says, serious for a split second before both he and Stiles snort in unison.

Allison sighs, pushing open the door finally, the boys filling in behind her.

They're first greeted with a large sign (Roulette, consulting and assoc.) and a front desk. It's very cliche, the way the desk has a stack of old-looking books, a large plant, a name card engraved JOHN SMITH, and various, obviously altered, framed photos of them - Lydia, Stiles, Derek, Allison, Isaac - strewn about the surface.

"Ok," Isaac manages to say, stepping into the room hesitantly, leading the others to do the same.

A second look at this 'waiting room' has them more confused than the first. Most notably, the three full-size paintings on the walls, portraits of people they've never met. They're extremely detailed, and extremely unflattering.

"I don't get it," Stiles finally declares to the room, the other two nodding in agreement.

Derek saunters in a moment later, managing to look simultaneously smug and sour. "This is our new cover story." He picks up a foreign tone, one resembling a rambling professor, "Welcome to Roulette, consulting and associates. Founded in 1913 by the great Mildrid Rebecca Roulette the third." He gestures behind them at the wall, prompting the three to turn around and see a very unflattering portrait of an older Lydia Martin.

Stiles snorts out loud.

"Lydia is going to kill you," Isaac laughs into his hand, trying to keep a straight face.

"Did you paint that?" Allison asks, looking to Derek curiously.

The hacker just stares, and deadpans, "I'm gifted."

"It's weird," she mutters under her breath, giving him her signature 'you're actually a freak' look.

Derek hands over a new cellphone and a file folder to each of them, "Your new identities as partners of the firm, clean and thorough, and state of the art phones, untrackable. You're welcome."

As Derek leads them through another door, Stiles rifles through his papers and grins. "I won the sack race at the Fourth of July picnic," he reads aloud, "Cool."

The Hacker stops in front of a few doors, "Now these are your new, fake offices. You can bring a photo, or a plant, or whatever, I don't really care-"

"Derek," Isaac interrupts, "I can't believe you spent your share of the cash on this-"

"Me? No, Lydia paid for all this," he corrects, "With what she had left, she donated the rest to a bunch of charities or something...but hey, this, this is mine."

He pushes open a small portion of the wall to reveal a hidden room of sorts. Flicking on the light reveals a large conference table and a set of six small flat screen tv's mounted on one wall. "Photo and forensic videos programs, backdoors into every electronic banking system in the world, also, facial recognition programs-"

"Is this the shortest version?" Stiles asks.

Derek glares, unimpressed, but ignores him in favor of looking back to his monitors. He's obviously very attached already.

"Alright, enough of that," Lydia begins as she strides through the open door, taking a seat at the head of the table. "Now all we need is a client, which I've already found, so everyone please sit down."

"Shouldn't we vote on it or something-"

"We don't vote," the redhead overrules, pulling her chair up to the table and propping her elbows on it. Everyone sits obediently. Lydia pulls out a flashdrive from her pocket, tossing it to Derek with a flourish of the hand. "Our first client is Marin Morell. Her brother owed money to the mob when he took the fall for a murder the boss committed."

The room is silent for all of two seconds before hell breaks loose.

"You can't be serious!"

"You want us to take down a russian mob boss on our first job?!" Lydia watches on, unperturbed, and waits for them to quiet down.

"Our third job," she corrects, and continues, "We're going to rob Chris Argent, a man who kills people and lives in our city."

The attention turns on Allison, who shrugs minutely.

"No relation, it's a common misconception."

 

                                                      

 

Enclosed spaces and four known thieves do not go together.

So, naturally, herding them into a van without windows and driving an hour outside the city can’t end well for anyone.

It ends with a lot of shouting on Lydia’s part, a lot of “I will turn this car around!” and “Stiles get back in your seat!” but all in all it ends up with no real damage to anyone’s ego or physical health.

 **Lydia** pulls the van around behind one of Illinois’ few hills, out of sight from the road and any prying eyes. The minute it stops has the thieves piling out the back with a drive that suggests life or death, Stiles seeing the hill and immediately sprinting up it. It’s almost reflective of the way one might suddenly let a wild animal out into new territory.

Derek gets an elbow thrown in his face in the process, but if uncharacteristically quiet about it as he watches Stiles fly up the mound and reach the top.

Kicking off her heels, Lydia carries them to the highpoint and sets them down at the top, her pack of thieves, sans Stiles, trailing behind.

In front of them sits the esteemed estate of the Argent family (who, in fact, Allison is not related to, after extensive digging on Derek’s part, as per Lydia’s request). In all its glory, a massive mansion sits as the centerpiece of many acres of open space. Stiles whistles lowly, impressed.

After having caught his breath, Derek pulls a pair of binoculars off his belt and hands them over to Lydia. The redhead sighs, bringing them to her eyes.

“Classic mob mansion, big ugly gates and all,” she comments, nose wrinkled with abject disgust. She’s not wrong to be so appalled, what with the property being every cliché about a big house ever imaged thrown into one building and an extra two acres of land.

“So,” she says finally, “how are we managing security?”

Derek snorts, “We aren’t.” At the others’ judgmental looks, he sours, “The place is a literal fortress,” he objects, “I counted four armed guards and a security system to rival the military’s.”

Stiles snatches the binoculars from Lydia without warning, squinting into them.

“That’s not including the FBI, who are parked around the corner,” the hacker adds, straight-faced.

“Where?” Stiles asks loudly, prompting Derek to physically grab the binoculars by the end and point them in the right direction.

“The plumber van parked on the curb.”

“Did you say plumber?” Isaac asks, eyes wide. A moment later and he’s swallowing laughter. “That’s their cover? How cute, it’s like it’s 1978 all over again-“

In his amusement, Isaac misses the odd looks from his teammates, whose faces read many things, but all of them knowing that Isaac wasn’t alive in ’78.

“Well, if we can’t get our surveillance the normal way, we’ll just borrow someone else’s,” Lydia concedes.

 

That leads to dressing **Stiles and Derek** up in well-tailored blazers and fake ID badges, parading them down to the small van that’s model year couldn’t possibly be later than 1960.

With Stiles being…Stiles and therefore having subpar acting ability, Derek is forced to take the initiative and, by extent, the lead.

He raps on the back doors of the surveillance van, stepping back and waiting.

A small “Yeah?” is called from the inside, after much rattling around.

Derek clears his throat, putting on a stoic face, “Relax, we’re from the bureau.”

A moment later, a single door is cracked open, revealing a dark, hesitant face.

“I’m Special Agent Thomas and this is Special Agent Hagen, he’s fresh out of Quantico. I’ve been showing him all the hotspots,” Derek explains and flashes him a freshly-burned fake ID, turning the attention momentarily on Stiles, who merely nods and tries to get a glance inside the door.

The Agent inside the van opens the door finally, stepping out and taking Derek’s identification in hand, scouring over it with intensity. This man is tall and well-built, characterized by dark skin and a hesitant frown. His partner steps into view, a much thinner, shorter man with the palest of complexity and an snarky look to his face. Through all this though, the thieves see a pair of underappreciated, underqualified field agents.

“Oh, and by the way, we got your memo. We’re moving it up the chain,” Derek adds, setting the hook and smiling with false kindness as the pair seems to just light up at that.

“Oh, well, great! Come on in. Sorry about the heat, and the smell,” the taller agent says, opening the door wider and letting them inside.

 

“How did he know that?”   **Isaac** asks from where he, Lydia, and Allison still stand on the mound outside, overlooking the exchange. Allison is sitting in the grass with Derek’s laptop, fiddling with folders and things that Derek will yell at her for later, but she can’t bring herself to care.

“Field agents are always sending memos,” Lydia answers, “They want recognition.”

 

“I’m Agent Reddick,” the taller man introduces, “And this is Agent Unger.”

True to his word, Unger waves and **Stiles** immediately flocks to him, ushering him towards the front of the van and out of the way.

It’s easier to con one man than two at once.

“This is the front line on the war against terror,” Unger says, unsure and yet over dramatic in Stiles’ presence, “Terror of organized crime.”

_“Now Stiles, lift his ID, quietly-“_

“Wow, is this vest lining Kevlar?” Stiles asks abruptly, suddenly running his hands over the lining of Unger’s vest, silently pulling his ID loose from where it’s pinned on his collar. The Agent is sufficiently flustered that he doesn’t notice Stiles hand the badge off to Derek behind his back.

“No, it’s rayon, more breathable than Kevlar-“

 _"Fantastic, Stiles,"_  Lydia snaps sarcastically in his ear.

“Mhmm,” Stiles hums thoughtlessly, looking around the interior as Unger continues to ramble.

Towards the back of the van, Reddick gestures to the screen, “I wish I could give you a sample but the bug we planted in Argent’s barbeque is pretty spotty,” he admits, referring to their surveillance. Derek’s eyes widen almost comically, looking a little sick.

“ _The_  bug?”

“Yes.”

“Singular?”

“Absolutely.”

It’s a cross between being relieved and appalled on Derek’s part.  

“Good work, g-good work,” Derek manages, expression unreadable, “You know what, I’m kind of into this-“ he gestures at the computers in general, “May I?”

Reddick nods immediately, looking honored by the idea, “Of course.”

Stiles stands in the front, swaying purposefully from heel to toe and listening to Unger ramble on, face completely blank with the amount of interest it all carries (i.e. none).

“So, yeah, when we’re investigating, if we need to-“

“Do you have any snacks?” Stiles interrupts, expressionless in tone and in face.

“Um, yeah, actually. We have a meat stick,” Unger says continues immediately, not missing a beat, but also not meeting Stiles’ very dull gaze, “but it’s half eaten.”

Stiles’ nose wrinkles in disgust, a look of revolt crossing his features minutely before it returns to the blatant disregard it was before.

Derek sits down in front of the computers, watching as Reddick brings up the headphones to his ears, “Oh, I see what the problem is, you’re bumping into baby monitor frequency,” Derek lies easily, in the meantime plugging a drive into one of their USB ports.

The lie is just enough to be believable, obvious when Reddick nods and adds “Oh yeah, I thought I heard some crying.”

“See if this clears it up,” Derek says, quietly plugging a drive into one of their USB ports, effectively connecting the FBI’s surveillance to Derek’s equipment at home, and by extent clearing up the audio.

“Wow, great!” Reddick nods enthusiastically, missing when Derek silently swipes Unger’s stolen ID badge through a magnetic strip reader he’s strapped to his ankle, resembling what one might use to pay with a credit card. Derek then strategically leaves the ID on the floor of the van for Stiles to find, standing in the process.

“I saw some rubber gloves earlier what do you use those for?” Stiles interrupts Unger in his stationary tour again, glancing up at the man with the most interest he’s managed so far.

Unger attempts a laugh, but it comes out choked. “Oh, actually, we’ve- we’ve just kind of been blowing them up and using them as volleyballs-“ Stiles sighs loudly in disappointment and turns around to begin filing out of the van behind the other two.

Stiles hops down after Derek, waiting until Unger steps out as well and picking up his ID from where Derek’s left it on the van’s floor. He steps into the agent’s space, a bit too close as he repins the badge onto his collar and finally manages to put up a fake smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Derek on the other hand smiles with false warmth and shakes Reddick’s hand.

“Good luck, we’ll be seeing you,” he amends, before he and Stiles book it out of there, walking as quickly as one can when trying to look casual.

They leave behind Reddick, glad that his memo has been looked at, and Unger, unusually smitten by Stiles; both that much lighter after being thrown something they can never really have.

                                                   

  

The Federal Building in Chicago is hardly one of the tallest buildings in the city, shorter in stature than even the AT&T Corporate Center building to its right. It’s almost embarrassing that it’s situated in close proximity to the better known ( ~~Willis~~ ) Sears Tower, the eighth tallest building in the world. However, its size is reinforced by its massive security, leading to Derek taking an entire day to completely perfect a compatible replica of Unger’s Federal ID badge, altered to fit Allison’s newly created profile.

Getting even to the door itself is hard, what with the mass of people milling about the Federal plaza and staring curiously up at the red sculpture that the buildings surround. **Allison** stops to glance up at the twisted piece of metal, skeptical.

“What the hell is with these things, they’re everywhere,” she comments quietly, ignoring the look the man beside her gives, one that suggests he might be looking at the mentally insane.

_“Actually most of the art sculptures on the streets are just temporary and a new gallery of art is switched out every so often. You're looking at Alexander Carter’s red Flamingo, which is one of the fewer, permanent pieces of abstract art, in addition to the more popular Cloud Gate – better known as The Bean - , the Art Institute Lions, and metal sculpting at Millennium Park.”_

Allison can just hear the shock though the coms, smirking quietly as everyone goes quiet.

 _“What the hell Stiles?”_ Derek barks.

_“What?”_

_“Do you just have all extensive knowledge on everything in this city?”_

_“I tried to steal The Bean once.”_

Allison snorts again at the silence, shaking her head and moving on towards the Kluczynski Federal Building. The man who’d been standing at her side makes a lunge away as she passes, watching her with equal interest and caution.

“I don’t even want to know how that ended up,” Allison retorts, pushing open the front doors to the half-skyscraper and sauntering past the guards with a flash of her freshly-manufactured badge. She can hear Derek’s sigh of relief, faint in her ear. It’s less than reassuring, but she continues through the halls anyway.

 _“I thought it was just like a famous cocoa bean or something, I didn't realize it weighed 110 short tons and was made of steel. Now I know better,”_   Stiles defends somewhere in the background noise. Allison has since learned to ignore them as white noise when they argue in her ear, and now it’s not even a challenge to block them out.

"Derek," she barks under her breath, waiting for a silence. "I'm in, guide me."

A loud sigh hisses over the coms and Allison rolls her eyes hard. 

_"I found the server room where the Argent security footage is kept. Room 718."_

 After walking several hallways to their ends, she stops at the correct room and turns the handle. It's dark and devoid of people, and has the look of a stereotypical office.

 _"All you have to do is plug in my flashdrive and run,"_ the hacker drawls, voice slow.

Allison seethes silently, stepping into the room. "I don't have to type anything, right?"

_"Just plug it in, it does the rest."_

Striding with silent steps over to the wall, she pauses in confusion. The only panel on the wall looks suspiciously like a regular filing cabinet. Only when she jostles it open with a little strength does she realize it _is_ a regular filing cabinet.

Full of tapes.

Allison looks at Derek's flashdrive with dread.

 _"Now the audio files can take a bit to download, but the servers are pretty loud so it'll give you some cover,"_ Derek explains in the background.

She pauses, mouth open in silent speech. 

"It's...tapes."

 

_"Did you just say tapes?"_

"Yes, I just said tapes!"

Picking up one of the thin boxes, she grimaces and reads the handwritten labeling on the face of the tape.

_"...Cassette tapes?"_

"Yes, your little drive-thing isn't going to work!"

_"Well at least you don't have to type anything-"_

"Derek," she snaps, feigning calm, "How am I supposed to get out of a federal building with a box full of surveillance tapes?"

_"I don't know, punch somebody!"_

Allison groans silently, clenching her fists and stomping her feet silently in anger. 

"Oh I'm going to punch somebody..." she mutters, just as the fire alarms start blaring. "Thank you!" she shouts sarcastically, pulling out the box of tapes and pushing back into the hallway, now clustered with dozens of evacuating federal agents. 

_"You're welcome!"_

"Why couldn't you have just done that from the start?"

 

 

"So...how was it?"

 **Derek** fights the urge to glare at Stiles as he sets up his laptop in connection to their screens back at their offices. The others file in and take their seats in the conference room.

"You try listening to 74 straight hours of mob talk... on a _walkman_ -"

"Alright, what did you learn?" Lydia interrupts, leaning her elbows delicately on the conference table and looking expectantly at the hacker. Her look is one that demands answers and intelligence, as well as respect, and Derek is reminded suddenly of his sister. Shaking it off, he clears his throat.

"Well, first of all, how great _Jersey Boys_ is, they are fantastic," he deadpans, prompting a snort out of Isaac, who quickly regains composure with a look from Lydia.

"About where Argent keeps his money?" she specifies, hard-eyed.

"It's kept on an off-shore account under his wife's name, Victoria, protected by the feds," he reads off, pulling up a page of a very scary-looking redhead and displaying it on the screen. Stiles visibly recoils.

"Can you crack the codes?"

Derek balks, eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. "The codes?"

Lydia nods, and begins "Yeah-" 

"The codes to the Cayman Bank of Trust where the California Cartel and the African Dictators keep all their dirty money?"

Allison thins her eyes at the obvious satire, "You're very negative lately."

"Yeah," Lydia agrees with a nod, leaving Derek looking pissed off and mildly affronted. "And the sass doesn't help. Where does Argent keep the liquid assets?"

The hacker continues to glare, initiating a staring contest between himself and Lydia for several seconds. He loses only when Stiles tries to grab for the remote to the tv. Glaring at the thief momentarily, he clicks a button that brings up a picture of an extremely flashy, urban mansion from an overhead view. "The Argent mansion. The place is a fortress." He pauses, zooming in on parts of the photo, "Several armed guards, an un-hackable security system, not to mention the feds outside-"

Stiles snorts, loudly, at the reminder of the two FBI agents and their sub-par security. 

"I could take the guards," Allison muses aloud, looking at the blown-up images of the well-built security men inside the mansion's outer walls.

Lydia shakes her head, lips pursed in thought. "Not if we can't get past the actual security system. We can't go in blind."

"We could tunnel from the neighbors, Oh! I have this great-"

"Stiles, if you think I'm crawling through a hole in the ground, you're seriously senile," Isaac snaps, arms folded.

Standing up and consequently drawing the attention back to herself, Lydia crosses the room to get a better look at the screen. In the middle of the Argent's yard is a huge white rectangle. "What's that?"

Derek gives her a pained look, but looks anyway. "Argent is hosting his daughter's wedding there this weekend. There's a lot of conversation between him and his wife about the whole thing," he says with a sigh, obviously having listened to them all.

"Let's hear one."

The hacker moves back to his laptop, pulling up one of the _hundreds_ of audio files he'd downloaded. He clicks play and Stiles covers his mouth to hold in a laugh.

 _"I am overwhelmed! I need help. You know this isn't a damn walk in the park-"_ Victoria Argent yells, frustrated. 

 _"Then why are we even hosting it here? I told you, I don't want people in my house!"_ Chris yells in return.

 _"You didn't say anything about that when you invite your dumb hunting buddies over, the ones who couldn't tell the difference between a deer and your_ son in law _-"_

_"Hey! That was an accident, and the doctor got the arrow out-"_

Derek silences it, face the literal definition of _fuck you_. That was obviously only one of many conversations he'd listened to.

"It's kind of like an opera, isn't it?" Allison comments with a grin, hidden behind her hand.

"You mean because I want to run away?" Derek deadpans. Lydia grins in response, moving for the door with purpose.

"Alright, alright. Now everybody pack your bags, if that wasn't an invitation, I don't know what is."

 

                                                    

 

"I don't see what the problem is," **Victoria Argent** says, voice lilting in irritation. Her daughter, Alicia, scurrying after her with a distressed look on her face. She crumples the paper in her hand by accident, palms sweaty in nervousness.

"This says the bride and groom are supposed to sing a rendition of Cher's 'My Heart Will Go On'," Alicia explains, her nervous voice rising an octave.

"Yes, I know. It's supposed to be romantic," Victoria responds tiredly. The doorbell rings, echoing loudly about the house. Descending down the flight of stairs, she waves a noncommittal hand for reassurance.  

Alicia looks visibly faint, following her down. "But, isn't it a bit much?" 

"It's your wedding, Ally, it's supposed to be _a bit much,_ " she says, tone mocking. Alicia makes a high-pitched noise before running in the direction of the bathroom.

Sighing in frustration, Victoria goes to answer the door. She throws it open, visibly surprised to see a young, red-headed woman standing on the other side. Briefly, she wonders how the woman got through the front gates, but isn't given time to expand on the idea before the girl offers her hand. Victoria shakes it hesitantly, surprised by a firm grip.

The visitor looks delicate, wearing properly-fitted clothes that resemble several designers Victoria can think of offhand. She is a smart dresser, more so than her daughter, and Victoria is instantly impressed.

"Mrs. Argent," the woman acknowledges, "Eloise Connelly, from Connelly Events. Your wedding planner."

Victoria pauses, "My what?" 

"Your husband hired me," Eloise clarifies, flashing a perfect smile. "He said something about you being... overwhelmed?"

She vaguely remembers telling Chris the same. "Alright, well... Here's the thing, everybody else I've hired is an absolute moron, but I'm going to have to live with it because the wedding is two days away. And I don't see how you can come in here and magically fix everything." Eloise doesn't even look shaken. "Who are you, Mary Poppins?" she mocks, intending to turn her away.

"Well," the wedding planner begins, gesturing behind her with a confident smirk, and Victoria finally notices the four other people standing in front of the porch. "I do have help."

 

 

                                                   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split this into two chapters, because there's just so much to write.  
> Hard to believe I started this in July...  
> Sorry about that!
> 
>  **Also:** Don't be afraid to pester me about getting this updated, because the more people telling me to get my shit together means the more likely it'll happen because I feel terribly guilty about it. So please, yell at me to get this done!

**Author's Note:**

> **You read it, you might as well comment?**
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